I
just took some bread to Papa. He was so hungry. He’s
beginning to look so bad, like a mussulman. Do you know what that
is? When a camp prisoner looks like a dead man? Can’t work
anymore. Can’t even eat. They get taken away. They don’t
come back. I won’t let that happen to Papa. Not if I can
help it.

Not
if Franz will still have me. I pray every day that he still likes
me. Without Franz, I have no bread ration. Without bread, Papa
can’t live. I tell you, I am learning so much. So quickly.

It’s
hard. Today I had to sneak one piece of moldy bread. There’s
been a crackdown again. The cooks are counting supplies. Papa
said, “Moni, go easy for a few days, I still have my soup
ration.” He does have it. He hid it. I don’t eat my
ration because Franz gives me his scraps. Camp food is all
grease, off the top of the pot. I told Papa, “You just get
stronger so you don’t look dead.” Papa is so brave.
He thinks he can take care of himself. But he can’t. I must
care for him. There’s no one else.

And
I must keep Franz happy. Tonight he’s drunk again. Lately,
all he does is drink his schnapps. You should see the size of his
belly. At least he didn’t beat me. Too drunk. Moody. He had
dental duty this morning, with the new prisoners. That always
puts him in a foul mood. He thinks he gets cheated of his share
of all the gold fillings. I don’t know.

I
like to sneak around the camp. I pretend I’m a ghost that
no one can see. It’s safer to be a ghost. This morning
another train came. New arrivals, maybe seven hundred people.
Lots of children, but they don’t have gold teeth. Franz
told me that.

He’s
interested in their mothers and fathers. But even with seven
hundred, there still wasn’t enough gold to please Franz and
the other Block Chiefs. There can never be enough.

I
wonder if Franz still likes me. I worry. He hasn’t used me
for three days. But like I said, he’s been drinking. I want
to make him happy. I ironed his uniform twice today. I could see
myself in his boots when I finished polishing them. I thought my
arms would fall off. Papa says, “You must keep Franz happy.
You are his piepel.”

Do
you know what that is, a piepel? I will tell you. A piepel is a
boy the Block Chiefs use at their orgies. A piepel must make his
Chief, his Master, happy. Always.

Block
Chiefs like their piepels plump and healthy. A piepel’s
only reason for living is to make his Master happy. I try to make
Franz happy all the time. If I lose Franz, I will die. And Papa
would die. He wouldn’t have any protection. I would rather
be dead than think of Papa dying.

I
do my best. I learn all kinds of tricks to please Franz. He
teaches me things from all the piepels he’s had before. I
only wish he wouldn’t get drunk. He scares me. Maybe he
doesn’t know what he’s saying. The next day he
doesn’t remember. But when he starts on his schnapps, it
all comes back again.

He
says he’s going to find a new piepel, that he’s tired
of me. He says he doesn’t want a piepel who that looks like
a mussulman. He wants a plump boy for his sex. He kicks me across
the room. He says he’s going to send me to the butcher,
Ludwig Teine. That’s the camp senior. He is nothing but
evil. Teine likes to seesaw his boys, the ones the Block Chiefs
don’t want anymore.

Do
you know the seesaw? Teine puts a stick across their necks. Then
he stands on the stick, a foot at either end. Back and forth,
back and forth, across their necks, until they snap. He’s
the devil, Teine is.

I
remember different seesaws. Back home, in the park. I remember
Mama talking with her friends while I was laughing with my
friends. I wonder, was it ever that way for Teine? Did his mother
take him to the park?

I
imagine even the devil was once a boy. Don’t you think so?

Franz
only says these things when he’s drunk. And sad. I know he
likes me. I just need to eat more. Get chubby again. You’ll
see. Franz will like me even more then.

The
war won’t last much longer. We hear the rumors. If we can
hold out a little longer…

In
the latrine today I heard that England won’t fall to
Hitler. And I heard America is going to help. I don’t
mention this to Franz. If Hitler loses, so does Franz.

I
saw Mama today. I told Papa, but he acted like he didn’t
hear me. But I’m sure it was Mama. She was walking with
some other women on the other side of the wire, by Block Ten. It
was some kind of labor duty. I was running an errand for Franz,
but I stopped to watch her.

“Mama!
Mama, is that you?” I called.

It
was her. I know it was. Papa asked if I saw her face. I said no,
but I know her hair. Cut short, but it was her hair. No one has
prettier hair. I would know it anywhere. Even here, where the air
is full of smoke.

Papa
said it couldn’t be Mama. He said Mama is still in Warsaw,
waiting for the war to end. But it was her. I don’t think
Papa wants to believe Mama is in a place like this.

I
told Papa I could ask Franz to check, to find out for sure. But
Papa said no, that I shouldn’t say a thing to Franz about
Mama. Never. He’s right, I know.

All
I can do is make Franz happy. Poor Papa. He was so upset. He is
getting weaker and weaker.

Do
you want to know a secret? I know I didn’t see Mama. I
might have, but I know I didn’t. I wanted to see her so
badly that I made myself see her. I love her so much. But Papa is
right. I know she isn’t here. No, what I saw was a dream. A
dream of a woman who looks like Mama.

I
have to go now. Franz is waiting for me. I can’t keep him
waiting. He gets angry. I hope he still wants me.

Will
you do me a favor? Please say a prayer that he still wants me.
Thank you.

Christopher
Woods is the author of The Dream Patch, a lyrical
novel about a Texas family during the 1940's. His collection of
prose poems and brief fictions, Under a Riverbed Sky, was
published by Panther Creek Press. His collection of stage
monologues for actors and actresses, Heart Speak, was
published by Stone River Press. His work has appeared in more
than four hundred publications including Columbia, Southern
Review, Confrontation, Rosebud, and Glimmer Train. His
plays, such as A Woman on Fire and Moonbirds, have
been produced in a dozen major cities. He has received a grant
from the Mary Roberts Rinehart Foundation. He has received
residencies at the Ucross Foundation in Wyoming and the Edward
Albee Foundation in New York. He has taught creative writing
workshops at Rice University Continuing Studies Program, The
Women’s Institute Of Houston.